Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave, turning his back upon the crowd, that, after a few moments' hesitation, gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee's Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his knees, and his face buried in his red bandanna handkerchief. But it was argued by others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief at that distance; and this point remained undecided. In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day, Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on him, and proffering various uncouth but well-meant kindnesses. But from that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to decline; and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's grave, he took to his bed. One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in the storm, and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's Partner lifted his head from the Pillow, saying, "It is time to go for Tennessee; I must put Jinny in the cart;" and would have risen from his bed but for the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his singular fancy: "There, now, steady, Jinny,--steady, old girl. How dark it is! Look out for the ruts,--and look out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he's blind drunk, he drops down right in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of the hill. Thar! I told you so!--thar he is,--coming this way, too,--all by himself, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!" And so they met. Here ends No. Three of the western classics, Being Tennessee's Partner by Bret Harte, the introduction by William Dallam Armes. The photogravure frontispiece by Albertine Randall Wheelan. Of this First Edition One Thousand Copies have been issued, printed upon Fabriano handmade paper. The typography designed by J. H. Nash. Published by Paul Elder and Company, and done into a book for them at the Tomoye Press, New York City, in the year Nineteen Hundred and Seven.